


Inconvenient Assembly

by Maplesyrup



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bow Street, Cablanca, Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Murderers, Mutual Pining, Private Investigators, Regency London, Regency Romance, famous author, regency england
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:01:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23546575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maplesyrup/pseuds/Maplesyrup
Summary: My submssion for Cablanca Week Day 3: Alternate Universe
Relationships: Benoit Blanc/Marta Cabrera
Comments: 23
Kudos: 104





	1. Chapter 1

_ London, 1804  
_ _ The Thrombey townhouse _

Harlan Thrombey’s voice carried from the foyer into the library, meeting Marta’s ears where she stood. The top rung of the sliding ladder she occupied kept her steady as she chipped away at her newest project: reorganizing Harlan’s massive collection of books. 

Her guardian had all the characteristics of an aging magpie. His largest collection was his books, but aside from that, he collected nothing in particular; anything that caught Harlan Thrombey’s eye was fair game. Both the town home in London, where they currently resided, and the estate in the country were repositories for his various finds. Marta used to wonder if it was the same for her and her younger sister, Alice; perhaps they were simply curiosities plucked from obscurity by the Thrombey patriarch. She’d been wrong, however, and quite happily so. 

After the tragic death of their parents, young Marta and Alice were whisked away to England to live with a rather quixotic but respected and successful man. As Marta grew older, Harlan revealed the reason why the girls had come to live with him so long ago. He knew their father from a military expedition in his youth that had taken him to the fledgling island of Cuba. Agosto Cabrera had saved Harlan from drowning when his ship sank and in return, promised Agosto anything that was in his power to procure.

Their father had merely shaken his head and asked that if the time came, he would see to it that his daughters were cared for. Harlan had been puzzled by the ominous request but agreed readily. A mere fortnight later, Agosto and Elena Cabrera met their deaths at the hands of rioters, punishment for being on the wrong side of the fight.

Marta blinked away the memories with a frown; they hadn’t caught her off guard like that in some time. She sighed, wishing not for the first time that her sister was still living with them. Alice had left four months ago, newly married and happy. Marta would never begrudge her sister anything, but she missed the nights they would talk, giggling like girls and speaking their mother tongue.

Those nights had helped her feel less alone.

As Harlan’s voice drew closer, she noticed another voice joining him in conversation. A male voice. Likely a runner from the Bow Street Magistrate’s office, she reasoned, shoving a history book on Abyssinia into its new spot. A lock of hair fell into her eyes and she blew it back, pulling out identical volumes on Australia and wondering what on earth Harlan needed two of them for. Rolling her eyes with a fond smile she replaced one volume and cradled the other to her chest as she descended the ladder.

“Marta!” Harlan’s voice rang out behind her, full of good humor. “My dear, whatever are you doing?”

She chuckled, reaching down to twitch a few wrinkles out of her cream cotton day gown as she alighted to the floor. “Reorganizing the library,” she said, smoothing a hand down the lace overlay of the dress. “Harlan, why do you have two copies of—”

Marta cut off as she looked up, spotting the man next to Harlan. He had sandy-blond hair, silky and thick-looking, and brilliant blue eyes, the very color of the ocean around her homeland. His lips curved in a slight pout and both his chin and nose were strong, complementing the rest of his features. He was—

“Beautiful,” she whispered, still staring.

“What was that, dear?”

She blinked, coming back to herself with embarrassing clarity and searched her mind for a truth that would fit the situation. She glanced down at the lovely book in her hands. “Uh...y-you have two beautiful copies of the same book!” She shoved the tome she held at him. “That’s one too many, so perhaps we might find a new home for this one?” Marta knew she was blathering like a simpleton but she didn’t relish sharing her unique condition with a perfect stranger, no matter how heavenly he looked.

Harlan took the book, bemused. “Well, of course. Not sure how I ended up with two identical books on Australia, but,” he turned to the gentleman with a dry grin, “care for a little light reading material, Mr. Blanc?”

The gentleman laughed through his nose, raising a hand and waving the offer away. “No, thank you, Mr. Thrombey.” He patted a manila folder held under one arm. “I’ve got plenty to keep my mind occupied as it is.”

His accent was so different; Marta had never heard anything like it. He spoke like he enjoyed the sound of words, caressing each one as it left his mouth. It was delightful. Before that thought could settle too deep, however, Marta realized with a start that she was likely interrupting what Harlan had intended to be a private meeting.

“Forgive me, sir,” she said to Harlan, her cheeks heating, “I am sure you would like your privacy.” She smiled, offering her hands to take back the book. “I shall be in the parlor should you need me.”

“Nonsense, dear,” Harlan said, waving away her apology and setting the book on a nearby table. “Go about your project and we fools will congregate near the hearth to warm our old bones.” He threw a look over his shoulder at Mr. Blanc and gestured to Marta. “Mr. Blanc, allow me to introduce you to my ward, Miss Marta Cabrera. Brilliant consumer of projects and the light of my life.” 

He turned to Marta. “And this, my dear, is Mr. Benoit Blanc, private detective and consultant for the Bow Street Magistrate’s office.” Proprieties concluded, Harlan clapped his hands together. “Now, Blanc, let’s see what you’ve got for me.”

* * *

Marta caught snippets of their conversation as she moved books to and fro. Apparently, there had been a string of murders around London and Bow Street was at a loss. She didn’t mean to eavesdrop but she was fascinated, both by the cases...and Mr. Blanc.

Where had he come from? He certainly wasn’t a Londoner; she would know. Was he from Europe, perhaps? Or, she thought with a tingle of excitement, perhaps the United States? She had read about the young nation, about its wild ideals and even wilder country, having been too young to take notice when the people had won the fight against her adopted land. She had met several people from around Europe and Mr. Blanc seemed unlike any of them. She glanced at him, her gaze lingering as various warm expressions animated his face. It was so unusual a trait to be found among the English, she reasoned, that he  _ had _ to be from America. He was just so different.

And preternaturally aware, she thought with embarrassment when he suddenly glanced up and caught her staring. She quickly busied herself in her project, her cheeks flaming. How obvious she had been! Ogling a handsome man like she was a girl of sixteen and not a spinster of twenty-three. She paused in shelving a book. Not that she felt like a spinster. Or acted like one, apparently. She frowned, shoving the book into its slot with more force than necessary. She would be careful not to let him catch her staring again.

The more the men spoke, the more pieces fell together in her mind, almost like a puzzle. She slid another book into its new spot on a lower shelf, then paused. There was an odd pattern to the crimes the men discussed, one that seemed so…familiar. She absently slid the ladder further down the shelved wall, musing as she climbed back to the top. So little was she paying attention that she didn’t notice the book she sought was too far out of her reach. Her grasping hand met only air and before she could form a frown of confusion, she had overbalanced.

She grabbed what she could and managed to catch hold of a ladder rung, letting out a shriek of fright, but her hands slipped before she could gain true purchase and she felt herself fall. There wasn’t time to brace for the impact, but it came nonetheless. Yet instead of meeting her doom, she was suddenly cradled by strong arms and held against a broad chest. Someone had caught her.

She gasped, then burst into tears of relief and lingering fear, clutching at whoever caught her and practically burrowing into them, some deep-seated instinct convincing her that they were safety and she should cling to them.

A deep, smooth voice shushed her gently and the arms shifted, keeping her close as she sobbed. She was carried a short way before her rescuer started to set her down, but she whimpered and clung harder. The voice came again, telling her it was alright, she was safe, and he’d keep hold of her until she was settled. He sat them both down and she felt the warmth of the fire seep through her skirts to her skin, making her aware of how badly she shivered.

Slowly, she came back to her senses, a growing mortification spreading as much as the fire’s warmth. She opened her eyes, a full-blown apology to Harlan on her lips but frowned, puzzled to see him sitting across from her, concern etched onto his lined face.

If he was there, then who— 

_ Oh, no. _

She glanced up to see the face of Mr. Blanc, his expression as concerned as Harlan’s, but with a hint of something…else in it. Those eyes of his were even more stunning up close and he smelled like sweet tobacco and black treacle. And his beautiful mouth, well; it was far,  _ far _ too close for comfort.

It curved into a sweet smile as he gazed back at her and her heart flipped. 

“Hello, there.” He murmured, ghosting a warm, calloused thumb across her cheek to push a lock of hair back from her face. “Are you alright?”

Marta suddenly needed to be anywhere but there. She wasn’t quite sure  _ which _ there she meant—the library, his arms-- but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the same instinct that had sought the safety of his embrace was now urging her to run and hide.

“Y-yes,” she said, then cleared her throat. “Yes. I’m fine.” She wriggled a bit and he took the hint, setting her awkwardly on her rear on the cushion next to him. She immediately stood, brushing off her skirts and holding her hands up when the men stood as well. “Truly, I’m fine.” She looked to Mr. Blanc, unable to quite meet his eyes but using her most polite voice. “Thank you for your service, Mr. Blanc. I am deeply grateful and in your debt. Please excuse me, I-I need to, ah, speak with the cook about dinner.”

With that, she turned and fled the room as fast as she was able, not even bothering to curtsey as she pressed a hand hard to her mouth. She bypassed the entrance to the kitchens entirely in favor of dashing up the stairs to her rooms. Once there, she barrelled to the basin by her dressing tables and cast up her accounts. 

Breathing heavily, she wrapped a trembling hand around the ceramic handle of her water pitcher, pouring a bit of cool water into her palm and cleaning her mouth several times. Once her heart had calmed and her shaking subsided, she covered the basin with a handkerchief and rang for her maid. Moving to her bed, she fell to her back with a deep sigh. Handsome men were a ha’penny a dozen; Mr. Blanc couldn’t be all that special. Many people possessed blue eyes and blond hair; that wasn’t unique, either. She had seen her share of broad male shoulders, well-tailored clothing, and men of the law. And yet...

She grabbed a pillow and shoved it against her face, smothering a frustrated yell.

What on earth was  _ wrong _ with her?!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benoit's nagging presence continues and a morning's outing brings Marta more than she ever would bargain for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *taps mic* Anyone still here ':D

_ The next morning…  _

When her maid revealed the handsome private detective was staying for dinner, Marta sent a note back downstairs with her. She had begged pardon from dinner, electing to have a tray in her room instead. The thought of facing Mr. Blanc across the table, of having to converse as if nothing unusual had happened, was too embarrassing by half. 

At least he’d be gone now, she thought as her maid helped her dress the next morning. She eyed herself in the mirror as her hair was arranged. He would no doubt return but now that she was familiar with his peculiar accent, she could ask a footman to alert her when he arrived and would be able to remove herself from the room before he entered. 

The maid expertly placed a final pin in Marta’s hair, and Marta smiled, thanking her as she rose. She swept a hand down the bodice of her green-and-white striped morning gown, tugging on the edge of her semi-sheer fichu to make sure she was properly covered. The dress was one of her favorites; the stripes were a near match for her eyes, as were her slippers. It was a secret pleasure she shared with no one else, not even her maid. 

As her night rail and dressing gown were being gathered for washing day, Marta left her room, making her way to the breakfast parlor. She checked the little timepiece she kept in her pocket, her steps hurrying when she saw the lateness of the hour. 

“Forgive me, Harlan,” she said as she swept into the parlor, placing a hasty kiss to his cheek before hurrying to her customary seat, “I hadn’t realized the time.”

A footman pulled out her chair and it was only then that she noticed the man seated across the table, unpleasant surprise piercing her as she registered his presence. Those same blue eyes that had captivated her so the previous day regarded her with warmth, their owner wearing a gentle smile and a lovely linen morning suit. Even his cravat was perfect. She all but dropped into her chair, lowering her eyes with haste and cursing her warming cheeks. 

Harlan said something to Mr. Blanc that didn’t require her contribution, so she busied herself with collecting her breakfast, her customary pot of mint tea sat in its usual spot by her plate. Fragrant steam wafted upwards as she poured herself a cup before serving herself from the collection of dishes on the table. She wondered as to the reason for such an early call as she spread strawberry preserves on her toast. Meticulous motions of the knife allowed her thoughts to settle lest she create another scene. 

Marta darted a glance at him. He regarded her still, even as Harlan conversed with him. The gentle smile he wore deepened at the corners as he turned to his host, focusing that blue intensity back on Harlan. A small, silent sigh of relief escaped her. What a ninny she was being. She focused her attention on her meal, adding things here and there as she needed them while running through her errand list for the day in her mind.

“Marta?”

She looked up, startled out of her musings mid-bite to see Harlan giving her a quizzical smile. She lowered the portion of toast she held, chewing and swallowing quickly.

“Yes?” she said, dabbing her lips with her napkin. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you spoke to me.”

Harlan waved away her apology. “Not to worry. I merely asked what your plans were for the day, my dear.”

“Oh, well,” she folded her napkin back in her lap and took up her tea, “I thought I would visit the bookseller, then I have a few personal errands before this afternoon’s calls.” She took a small sip, setting the cup back in its saucer. “Did you need anything in particular, sir?” A tiny, impish smile gathered at the corner of her mouth. “I could visit the confectioner’s; perhaps they’ve replenished their selections of candied lemon peel.”

She wrinkled her nose at him playfully and Harlan chuckled. “You’d just like to see me grow fat, or lose all my teeth.” He tsked in mock reproof. “Such affection. Ah, well. Can’t be helped.” He winked at her. “Just a shilling’s worth.”

She giggled then nodded her head regally. “No more, no less, sir.”

“I have a few errands in town myself this morning,” Mr. Blanc said, popping the cheerful bubble of her exchange with her guardian. “I would be glad to escort you, Miss Cabrera.”

Before she could open her mouth to decline his offer, Harlan answered for her.

“A splendid idea!” he said, grinning like it was the invention of the century to escort a lady about her business. “I have correspondence to return and could not accompany Marta myself. Thank you, Benoit.”

“It’s truly not necessary,” Marta interjected, drawing both sets of male attention her way. “I plan to take a route I use several days a week; I am quite comfortable going alone.” 

“But Marta,” Harlan countered, concern etched in his brow, “there is a murder afoot in London.” He pressed a hand to his heart. “What sort of guardian would I be were I to let my precious girl traipse about such dangerous streets alone?”

Marta narrowed her eyes at him. It was one of his games, she was certain of it. The twinkle was in his eye and the purse of his lips as he suppressed another incorrigible grin belied the worry on his brow. Whatever he was playing at, she wasn’t going to give up easily.

“Sir,” she said, exercising extreme patience, “I highly doubt I would be accosted in broad daylight on a well-traversed street known for its shops.” She gestured to Benoit. “There is no reason to burden Mr. Blanc and delay him from his work.”

“Please, Miss Cabrera, don’t fret,” Benoit interjected, his unfairly-blue eyes crinkling at the corners from a smile. “I am rather fortunate in that I make my own hours, so to speak, so it truly is no burden at all to ensure your safety.”

Marta pasted a bland smile on her face as she looked from Harlan to Benoit and back. She was, effectively, trapped. Resigning herself to spending the morning with the Detective, she murmured her thanks and returned to her breakfast, letting a little of her frustration out on the shell of her boiled egg as the two men took up the threads of their earlier conversation.

* * *

He was already positioned at the bottom of the stairs by the time she was ready to depart, reticule around her wrist and Harlan’s book in her arms. As she alighted on the marble landing, Benoit turned to her, his expression giving way to a bemused, crooked little smile as she walked towards him.

“Are you quite alright, Mr. Blanc?” she said with a frown of concern. Accepting her favorite straw hat from a maid, she settled it atop her head and began to tie the green satin ribbons beneath her chin. He blinked a few times, the bemusement clearing, and nodded as he dropped his gaze

“Yes, of course. Perfectly fine.” He gestured to the front door as it was opened by a footman, donning his own top hat. “Shall we?”

She set off at a brisk pace but slowed to a stop at the laugh that met her ears. Turning back around, she saw Benoit strolling towards her at a much more leisurely pace, shaking his head and grinning. Honestly, did the man ever  _ not _ smile? And did those smiles have to set off his eyes so wonderfully?

Tamping down on that thought, she raised her chin stubbornly when he caught up with her. 

“Why such haste, Miss Cabrera?” He stopped just a tad too close for comfort. “The city will not disappear before you can get there.” The spice of his scent wafted to her and she resisted the desire to breathe him in.

_ Ninny _ .

“I always walk on my errands, Mr. Blanc,” she said archly. “I enjoy the fresh air and exercise.” She turned and resumed walking, though at a marginally slower pace. “If you find it is too much for your sensibilities, then I shall take no offense if you would prefer a carriage for your duties.”

He gave a contemplative hum but kept walking beside her. “You place a high value on your independence of movement, of your routine. Don’t you?”

She slanted him a look. “I do.”

“I see. It’s no wonder my presence chafes at you, then.”

She sighed through her nose, annoyed at being so easily read. “I am not a helpless female, Mr. Blanc,” she spat. “I do not require a  _ chaperone _ for common duties. And even if I did, you would not be my first choice.”

He stopped her again, placing a hand gently on her forearm. They hadn’t even made it to the first corner of the street and he’d halted her progress twice already. She turned, staring first at his hand, and then his face. His brow furrowed with what seemed like contrition, his eyes a trifle sad as he took his hand off her.

“Miss Cabrera, forgive me for being forward, but, have I done something to offend you in some way?”

The softly-voiced question said in that honeyed accent caught her off-guard. She could only stare at him, lost for a response. 

“If I have,” he continued, “I should like to apologize for it. Will you allow me to do so?”

Marta felt a surge of guilt. Really, there was nothing for him to apologize for. Of the two of them, she was the one who owed him an apology, behaving like a skittish, ill-tempered goose simply because he was attractive. Surely at three-and-twenty, she’d grown out of such childish behavior, even if  _ attractive _ didn’t begin to cover how breathtaking he was. She couldn’t very well admit such a thing, so she latched on to a more reasonable, and true, explanation for her behavior.

“You have nothing for which to be sorry,” she said, her cheeks heating from shame. “It is I who owes you my contrition.” She sighed. “My sister…has Mr. Thrombey told you about her?”

“The newly-minted Mrs. Wagner?” He smiled. “As a matter of fact, I happen to know her husband. He is a fine young man. And your sister is a spirited young woman.”

Marta snorted, then covered her mouth at the unladylike noise. Clearing her throat she glanced up at Benoit once more. “ _ Spirited _ is certainly a way of putting it.” She let out a wistful sigh. “I miss her. The townhome, the estate…everything is so quiet without her in it.” She hugged the book to her chest. “I am so happy for her but…”

“You’ve been a pair your whole lives and it’s as if someone removed a limb?”

Her eyes widened. “Yes, that is  _ precisely _ how it feels.” She took an unconscious step closer. “I am only the eldest by a mere two years; we were each other’s closest companions since childhood.” 

Understanding filled his beautiful eyes and for a moment, Marta lost herself in them. The loud clatter of hooves on cobblestones brought her back to earth and she took a hasty step back, lowering her eyes.

“Shall we continue?” She gestured awkwardly up the street, refusing to look at Benoit lest she do something even more foolish than stand too close to him. “I-it’s not very far. The bookseller, I mean. His shop.”

“By all means,” he said, his warm voice filled with humor. She bit back the smile that wanted to erupt, somehow understanding he wasn’t laughing  _ at _ her, but with her.

They made their way down to the fashionable section of London city that held an array of lovely shops, their best wares advertised in their windows. Marta stopped first in the confectioner’s to purchase Harlan’s beloved candied lemon peels as promised, Benoit following her as she flitted from sweet to sweet like a butterfly, sighing at the delicious smells and lovely edible decorations everywhere.

“Do you have a favorite?” Benoit asked as she lingered over a case of caramels and creams.

“Oh, yes,” she said, gazing longingly at the soft caramels wrapped in paper, “but we are not here for me.” She raised the bag of lemon peels, giving them a little shake before moving off to the counter to pay. The bell above the confectioner’s door chimed merrily as they left and Marta took a deep breath of the fresh air.

“I adore sweets but I must say, a healthy dose of fresh air is direly needed after a few moments in a place like that,” Benoit said. Marta agreed and they moved on to the bookseller.

The air in that particular shop was altogether different, the atmosphere hushed as a library as customers perused the books for sale, their faces serious with concentration. Moving to the proprietor’s counter, Marta inquired about a possible price for Harlan’s book and to her delight, was offered more than fair compensation for the tome. Apparently there was a sudden fascination with the far-flung continent and books on the subject gathered no dust on his shelves. 

Marta thanked him, moving out of the way for the next customer, and gazed around at the bounty before her, a private thrill humming in her blood at all of the untapped knowledge. Harlan had more books than she could read in a lifetime, but what was one more, she thought as she meandered towards the back of the shop. Perhaps a novel, or— 

She stopped short as one particular book caught her eye. The author’s name shone in small, gilded letters.  _ B. Siegfried Albinus _ . With a careful hand, Marta pulled the book from its position on the shelf, opening the cover. Inside, a small block of text informed the reader that the work had been translated from Latin in its complete form, that the English user may find it helpful in their study. A sigh of wonder passed her lips and she leafed through a few pages, marveling at the detailed anatomical drawings and translations she saw. For whatever reason, Harlan kept no medical or anatomical books of any sort in his vast catalogue. She smiled; perhaps it was time to rectify that.

Clasping her treasure to her chest, she moved back to the front of the store, waiting patiently for the proprietor to be available. When he was, she walked to the counter, beaming.

“Well, then,” the proprietor said with a grin, “the young Miss has found something upon which to spend the small fortune earned from her sale, eh?” He chuckled, holding out his hand. “I shall price this out as well, and then you are free to—”

He stopped, paling as he saw the cover. With a coughing sort of harrumph, he dropped the book inelegantly on the countertop.

“Young lady, I am afraid I cannot sell you this book.” He sent her a patronizing glare over the small spectacles perched on his nose. “You shall have to choose another.” He waved her away, then turned to the next customer in line with a welcoming smile.

Marta stepped back, confused. He couldn’t sell her the book? It was merely a book on human anatomy! Not something illicit or indecent; what on earth was the issue?

“Is something the matter?”

She turned to find Benoit at her elbow, his expression concerned. She gave a small shrug.

“The proprietor refuses to sell me a book.” She turned to the counter, pointing. “That thick book there. It is an anatomy book by a very famous man, translated from the original Latin into English.” Shaking her head, she scoffed. “I cannot understand why he refused; it’s medical science, for heaven’s sake, not a ha’penny novel.”

Benoit pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing. “Pardon me for a moment, Miss Cabrera.”

He brushed past her, his steps deliberate and sure as he made his way to the counter. After a quick exchange with the proprietor, the bespectacled man lit up and gestured to Marta’s book. Pulling it towards him, he opened a ledger and made a mark low on one page. Benoit passed him a small card, and the man nodded his thanks before wrapping the book tidily in brown paper and tying it with twine. Benoit scooped up his purchase and turned on his heel, making a beeline for Marta. As he got closer, he gestured at the door and she caught the hint, pressing it open until they were both back on the sidewalk.

“Idiot,” Benoit muttered, shifting the book and looking at Marta. “Shall we?”

As they continued, Marta couldn’t help the jealousy that bubbled inside her. Prohibited from buying a book that she had only ever heard of and dreamed of one day seeing, and then Benoit swoops in and buys it right from under her. She should have made a fuss, should have offered the proprietor double what he may have asked for it, maybe then— 

“He wouldn’t allow the sale because you are a woman,” he said in a low voice. She sent him a flat look before turning away, her jaw clenching. She should have known. Likely he even agreed with the stupid bookseller. He probably bought the book to teach her a lesson; it would be so like a man. Her fist tightened around the bag of confectionery.

“Apparently,” Benoit continued, unaware of the tumult inside Marta’s head at that moment, “women are such fragile creatures that the sight of bones and muscle will render unto them spells of hysteria and fainting.”

She was ready to deliver him a terse good day and continue on with her errands alone when he surprised her, yet again.

“Utter nonsense.” He snorted a laugh. “I’m trying to imagine what the women of my home would say should anyone dare tell them they cannot do something simply because of the accident of their sex.”

As his words slowly absorbed into her mind, a creeping realization began to dawn; she may very well have been underestimating the man beside her. A question formed, poised on her lips as he kept speaking about his country, but she didn’t register another word of what he said.

“Then why,” she interrupted, uncaring of her rudeness, “did you buy the book?”

His eyebrows rose to his hairline. “Was that not obvious?” He held out the paper-wrapped parcel. “It’s for you.”

So hard was she gaping at him that she nearly ran into a passerby. Muttering an apology as the man skirted around her, she turned her attention back to Benoit. “For…me?” 

He nodded. “I only carry it because I imagine you’ll have enough to fill your arms soon.”

Marta was at a loss for the second time that morning. He had purchased it for her, but for what reason? She took a breath. “That was…far too generous of you, Mr. Blanc.” She opened her reticule, fishing around for her funds from the sale of Harlan’s book. “Please allow me to recompense you for the expense.”

“Miss Cabrera,” his voice stopped her digging, her hand closed around several coins, “it’s a gift. You needn’t pay me.”

“But why?” She was being incredibly rude, but manners be damned. The big, blond, veritable stranger escorting her about town was upending all of her assumptions, rendering her nearly dizzy with confusion.

His brow fell under the weight of obvious chagrin. “Because it was unfairly denied you. I am an American, Miss Cabrera. We do not take kindly to someone unfairly denying us something.” He watched her for a moment longer, a sheepish look crossing his face as a flush crested his cheeks. “But…I fear now it was far too forward of me to have done such a thing.”

Her mind finally caught up to its usual pace, rapidly recalculating her interactions with Benoit in the past twenty-four hours and coming to the swift and mortifying conclusion that she had indeed grossly misunderstood the man before her. She let out a breathy laugh.

“No, Mr. Blanc. It was a lovely gesture.” She gave him a genuine smile. “Thank you for your kindness.”

He turned his head, pressing his lips together but failing to fully hide a pleased little smile. “It was no trouble, Miss Cabrera. I am quite fond of your guardian and hoped you and I might be friends as well.” The smile broke through. “Despite the accident of yesterday.”

The recollection made her blush. “Ah, that.” She fiddled with the ties of her reticule. “Well, as you said, we are friends. Are we not?”

“I should like it if we were.”

She nodded. “Then, may I confess my…discomfiture at the clumsiness that put you in such an improper position? And express my apologies for both that and leaving so rudely?”

He cut the air with his hand, shaking his head. “No apologies are necessary, truly. I could never forgive myself had I allowed you to be injured. It was, as I said, an accident and you hold no blame for what occurred.” His warm accent and kind words trickled through her, giving her a strange and delightful sense of safety and comfort. He clasped his hands behind his back as they ambled along the street, their pace and silence companionable as the world passed them by.

“I do hope this isn’t rude,” he said after a few quiet moments, “but my curiosity won’t give me peace until I ask: what drew you to the book on anatomy?”

“Well, I—”

The shout of a mail coach driver startled her and she was yanked back just in time to avoid being crushed under its massive wheels.

“Wh-what-”

“Damn fool driver,” Benoit growled near her ear, his breathing heavy. She realized he was the one who had pulled her back from doom, his arms gone ‘round her, holding her tight to his broad chest. She turned her head, looking up at him. His hat had gone askew in the tumult, giving him a somewhat demented look. She almost laughed.

“Were you harmed?” he asked, his brow creasing with concern. He gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze, his eyes roaming her face.

She shook her head, reaching up to tug his top hat back into place but stopped, staring at her hand.

“Oh, no,” she whispered, pushing away from him and casting her gaze about the walk and adjacent street. She took a few steps forward, ignoring the odd looks thrown in her direction. “Oh… _ drat _ .” She whirled around, biting her lip as her eyes met Benoit’s. She maneuvered around the people, making her way back to him.

“Mr. Blanc,” she began, an apology already in her voice, “I need to return to the confectioners. I dropped Mr. Thrombey’s sweets and cannot find the bag.” She closed her eyes, pressing the fingertips of one hand against her temple against a sudden throbbing. “What a careless  _ waste _ .”

Strong hands clasped her shoulders in a gentle grip once more. “Don’t you worry about that. I’ll take care of it. Let’s get you home first.” She opened her eyes to see him hailing a hackney and he carefully bundled her inside the moment one stopped. She didn’t resist, having had enough of the town for one morning. He gave quick instructions to the driver before shutting the door and smiling at her, his top hat finally straightened, before the carriage lurched forward and towards home.

Marta reclined against the leather seat, barely taking note of the noisy streets around her as the carriage moved along. Her mind focused on Benoit and his unflagging good humor and kindness, and after she had been so boorish to him at breakfast! Walking so close their shoulders almost touched should have rendered her speechless from the brush with impropriety but she found she did not care. The lovely book he’d bought for her, the feel of his arms around her as he rescued her for the second time in less than a day, the way his voice dropped to a delicious growl as he berated the careless mail coach driver, all of it was making her feel overheated.

Pulling a collapsible fan out of her reticule, a fan kept for just such a purpose as her fierce blush, she flicked it open and fanned her face, the slight breeze she created taking the edge off her discomfort. An odd feeling crept under her skin, a sort of  _ awareness _ , though of what she wasn’t sure. The only thing she knew for certain was her debt to Benoit was growing by leaps and bounds. Part of her worried there would come a time when that debt would be called in, and if so, would she be ready for it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, how will she ever repay him. Again.

**Author's Note:**

> I love a Regency fic


End file.
